


Different Shades of Blue

by chewsdaychillin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Enemies to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Making Out, Rivalry, extremely cringey british words are said, in the boathouse like its maurice 1987, much champagne, oxford vs cambridge boat race au, sighs... hot jon rights i guess, the inherent homoeroticism of university rivalry, the inherent horniness of being posh and english
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:53:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23630365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewsdaychillin/pseuds/chewsdaychillin
Summary: The Oxford cox's voice is extremely grating, worse than the muscle pain, and Tim thinks he’d sound much better with a sock in his mouth. Or someone’s tongue.So I read on the tma wiki that Tim went to Trinity college and google told me there's one at Cambridge and I could not stop thinking of au potential of a jontim Oxbridge rivalry so here it is.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker
Comments: 45
Kudos: 314





	Different Shades of Blue

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is probs my most offensively british to date (tho pls do not think we are all like oxbridge students bdwiuebfibfew) so i will explain some things if you know nothing about the boat race :
> 
> basically Oxford and Cambridge are like the most prestigious, oldest, poshest unis in the uk and they're basically the same but have a rivalry going on because of it. and once a year in march they have this big rowing race up the thames that's just between them and it's very contentious and it's on tv and everything
> 
> the cox is the guy who sits at the front (?) of the boat and tells the rowers when to row so they all keep in time. 
> 
> at the end its traditional for the winning team's cox to get thrown in the thames and like.. dunked..
> 
> oxford blue and cambridge blue are both real colours lmao but oxford blue is actually a nice blue, cambridge blue is like.... mint green? idk 
> 
> (i didn't go to either of these unis and dont row so sorry if u do lmao)
> 
> and now... our feature presentation:

Tim’s arms are straining and hot enough that the freezing splash-back of the Thames would be icy bliss if it didn’t evaporate right off him. The whole boat is steaming. Grunts and the pounding spray of water is all he can hear.

That is until the Oxford boat pulls alongside them.

His captain is yelling, upping the speed. ‘Stroke, stroke,’ coming faster and angrier as the other team makes headway. And yet over the top of it, the yelling, the straining sounds of effort, the crash of the chopped up Thames, Tim can hear the Oxford cox.

Bellowing his head off. Must be, if Tim can hear him from the back of the Cambridge eight. But he doesn’t sound strained. He sounds hatefully smart, posh and determined.

His boat is flying. He doesn’t let up a decibel. The sound is extremely grating, worse than the muscle pain, and Tim thinks he’d sound much better with a sock in his mouth. Or someone’s tongue.

_His_ tongue, he decides later, as his whole team commiserates on losing the race they’ve worked all year to win. His captain is crying and a couple of the boys are patting his shoulder. But they’re live on the BBC and Tim would much rather check out his rivals than cry live on the BBC.

The Oxford lot are about to do the throw. Their poor loud cox is protesting, stammering as they go for the legs and lift him. Tim wonders how much of it is performative. Obviously they’re going to throw him in, better to not make such a fuss of it.

But he’s finding it all rather fun to watch. The cute cox stammers his way all through the countdown and into the water, only finally shutting up when his head comes out of the Thames dripping. His mouth is open in a gasp, and though Tim’s second thought is grimacing pity - _he_ certainly wouldn’t want filthy London river water in his mouth - his first is that it sounds rather good.

He wonders, as water drips down wet tendrils of the Oxford cox’s hair, down his shock red cheeks, if hearing it again might be in order as medicine, to sooth his wounded, loosing soul. He watches the boy stutter and shiver through laughs and get bundled up in a towel (Oxford blue, ugh) and decides the after party would be proper.

They cross paths at the champagne bar and Tim is loath to admit it but he does scrub up well - scowling like an awkward Austen hero in his tails and bowtie. He looks bookish, the bags under his eyes aren’t usually Tim’s type. Tim's gone for rugby lads, hockey girls, med students. Ended up with a bit of a reputation for chubby chasing last semester and the Oxford boy is, well. A cox. Doesn’t have a pound of flesh on him.

But he carries it well. He doesn’t smile and Tim very much wants to see him smile before he snogs him.

Tim cuts in front of him in line to order for the both of them. Something good and old and, obviously, French.

‘What are you doing?’ Oxford asks, frowning.

‘Congratulating you,’ Tim grins, handing him the glass by the thin stem. Their fingers brush as he takes it, still looking adorably suspicious.

‘Fraternising with the enemy, isn’t it?’ He points out, and Tim laughs, gestures around the hall.

‘Well isn’t that rather the point of the thing?’

‘I thought the rivalry was the whole point of the thing.’

Ah. Clever. Just as Tim had guessed. Clever is very much his type. 

‘Well, I suppose you’re right,’ he allows, and throws in a wink. ‘Makes it all a bit more fun.’

Oxford chokes on his champagne and Tim glows with the thrill of catching him off guard.

He offers his hand and introduces himself properly. The cox’s hand is stronger than Tim had expected, cool from the champagne as says his name is Jon.

No last names. Fine, Tim smirks to himself. It’s more fun to watch him walk away that way.

Most of the Cambridge team are plastered by the time Tim starts losing track of them, and half have had the same idea he has and gone off to find a quiet spot with someone.

He’s lost track of Jon too. But with the hall thinning he can see that’s because he’s not here. He might be avoiding Tim, but Tim guesses it’s more likely he’s avoiding the crowd, and has a good idea where he might slink off to.

He’s right.

The boat house is empty, full of black spots, dark corners darker next to shocking streaks of light through the old roof. The water bobs comfortingly, slapping wet against the side of the boat.

He’s going to call hello, just to check there isn’t anyone else here who’s had the same thought that it’s a perfect hideaway. Then he spies a familiar beanpole silhouette in a shadowy alcove.

An empty champagne flute is on the floor at Jon’s feet and it sounds like he’s fiddling with a packet of cigarettes.

His posture looks a bit sad, or maybe just tired, and it pulls Tim towards it.

’Ah,’ Tim calls as he comes out of the shadows with his best swagger, bowtie lose. ‘If it isn’t the winning cox again.’

Jon looks up, puts his fags away. ‘Come to tell me coxing isn’t a sport and that we didn’t deserve to win?’ He asks, and he doesn’t sound sad or tired.

Tim grins. ‘Shouting isn’t a sport no, but I’d hope I’m not that sour a loser. You did deserve to win. If only since you were so much louder than our poor Toby.’ 

Jon goes a bit red then and blusters. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘that’s my job.’

‘Well you’re distractingly good at it,’ Tim tells him, stepping closer, letting his eyes go up and down and up again, ‘I rather thought someone should find another use for your mouth.’

Jon stares at him and Tim thinks for a second he might have crossed the line. His neck is flushed and he seems like the kind to run scared if it all gets a bit heavy.

Tim’s about to step back and let the poor boy escape but Jon keeps looking at him. He has very intense eyes, dark under a quizzical, vulnerable brow. He’s attractive quiet too, actually.

After a second too long of looking he steps back, leans his shoulder against a solid pillar and cocks his head.

‘The trophy’s really heavy,’ he says, playing with his fingers, ‘took three of us to get it up for the picture.’

Tim stalks towards him. 'God, you’re annoying.’

‘The man from the BBC wanted all these different angles-’

‘Shut up,’ Tim tells him. An arm strikes the wall behind his head and stays there, boxing him in.

Jon looks up, follows Tim’s forearm, bicep, neck, eyes. 'Are you going to make me?’

Tim is practically salivating to stop his mouth in that slightly parted, maddening shape. He looks like he’s going to start talking again but he holds his tongue still, waits.

And Tim waits. Waits just a second less than he can hold himself until Jon’s eyes dip down to his lips with a second of needy worry.

When Tim finally kisses him, crushing, open mouthed, already wet, he makes that same gasp he made coming out of the icy river.

Tim wastes no time chasing it back down his throat with his tongue. The hum he gets in answer vibrates through his whole mouth, into his jaw. He kisses hungrily, sucking and probing and tasting... tasting -

‘Christ,’ Tim hisses, coming up for air, ‘you still taste like the bloody Thames.’

‘You should’ve bought me the bottle then,’ Jon says, smiling primly against Tim’s mouth, ‘shouldn’t you?’ 

Tim gets back to it with a scoff. He ignores the tinkling smash of the champagne flute on the wood - presses them both into the pillar, presses his mouth in harder and groans when Jon pushes back. Hands slide into Tim’s hair and tug and he _melts_ but forces it out as a growl. A bit of rivalry never hurt anyone, it seems.

He loves the banter, loves that he’s getting something back, but it only makes him want to kiss it quite more. He nips at Jon’s haughty, teasing mouth and _God yes..._ The quiet _is_ better because he can hear the small noises, the caught gasps and sloppy little almost keens Jon’s making around his tongue. 

Only the instinctive need for oxygen could beat the need to keep kissing for the rest of his life, but eventually he comes up for air after what feels like hours glued together by their convalescing spit.

He inhales first on intuition, but then prioritises opening his eyes quickly, wanting to take it all in.

Jon’s face is tilted up still, a slit of cold moonlight cutting across it. His pretty mouth is kiss red, glinting with Tim’s saliva. And quiet. So quiet. All of the tension he’d held in his shoulders - the stammer and the heightened, lowered voice he’d put on for the cameras - dropped. His breathing comes soft and warm. Contended and wanting.

‘Right,’ Tim murmurs, more than half hard and struggling for bravado. He clears his throat and Jon’s eyes flutter back open. 'I suppose I should leave you to your victory.’

Jon’s fingers tighten where they’ve found something to hold, hooked into Tim’s belt loops, and he has the gall to whine through his teeth at the very idea of it.

‘Or,’ Tim grins, raising his jaw and looking up at the leaking ceiling as Jon noses into his collar, ‘I could get a cab? Cambridge are up at Claridge’s.’

Jon pulls back and gives him a smirk that honestly Tim is quite jealous of. ‘We’re at the Savoy,’ he says, ‘it’s nicer.’

‘Is not.’

‘Closer.’

That Tim will allow is a compelling argument.

‘I’ll let you drink champagne out of our cup,’ Jon tells him, hands snaking smugly round his hips.

Tim decides it’s very much time for him to shut up again, and it’s twenty minutes and a good few buttons later before they make it out onto the curb to meet their taxi.

They find an empty room but are quite the opposite of quiet, stumbling into the dark like a heard of elephants with a bad case of the giggles. Jon doesn’t do this often, he admits as he fumbles for the light switch. Tim pulls back, tucks his hair behind his ear, smiles, says it’s fine, whatever he wants. ' _Got a feeling you might be good at being bossy,’_ he says, teasing, deadly serious _. 'As long as I can still have that drink.'_

They sneak, badly, around the corridors looking for wine and silverware. Crash back into the mattress with their haul. Tim relishes his drink from the trophy, the champagne on ice, the luxury hotel sheets, and the rest. It’s dizzying enough that he almost forgets he’s lost to this insufferable, adorable Oxford boy.

In the very early morning they creep across the chequered marble floor, Tim still in rumpled tails, Jon in pyjamas and long socks, and wait on the steps for a cab in the fresh air.

Jon declines Tim’s offer of his jacket but, as the car pulls up, Tim tucks his handkerchief into Jon's neckline. It stands out, Cambridge blue, against his throat.

‘I’ll see you at Henley then,’ Tim winks.

He’s closing the door of the taxi, grinning with last nights high and the thrill of having the last word, but Jon calls after him.

‘You’ll see me on the news first. We’re going to be on _This Morning.’_

His smugness is a trap, but a very well laid one. And Tim decides, as he shakes his head, jogs back up the front steps to kiss Jon’s sweet, gloating mouth goodbye for the second time, that he doesn’t mind falling for it.

**Author's Note:**

> the savoy and claridge's are both posh london hotels. Henley regatta is another big rowing competition that is in july. 
> 
> so there we go. shout out to my friend who used to cox for durham dbwefbweifb i wouldnt know these things without you see i was listening xo
> 
> if u enjoyed lemme know :))))) or u can find me on tumblr @babyyodablackwood x 
> 
> and thanks to the like four people who liked my original post about this au you really made me do this huh ....


End file.
